


Collision Course

by dreamsofdramione (Bugggghead)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Allusions to smut, Angst, Break Up, Competition, Dramione Duet 2019, Dramione Duet Exchange, F/M, Falling Apart, Heavy Angst, Interns & Internships, Pining, Post-War, Potioneer Draco Malfoy, Redemption, Songfic, Vignette, and finding their way back, monster among men - 5sos, potioneer hermione granger, smutty-ish moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-01-16 21:55:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21278354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bugggghead/pseuds/dreamsofdramione
Summary: Lying to oneself is a tricky thing.A thing that could only last so long.When someone from Hermione Granger's past resurfaces in the present, long-buried truths come to light.-Written for Dramione Duets Round 11 2019 Fic Exchange





	Collision Course

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Drewzer7717](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drewzer7717/gifts).

> Strong hold,  
It's time for me to admit that I'm an  
Asshole, so here I go  
Oh, the stupid truth is I'm so bad for you  
Oh no no no, I can't take it  
Oh no no no, I won't break your heart again
> 
> **Prompts Used: [Monster Among Men by 5 Seconds of Summer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nJB2FxQDyfA) & Internship (kind of)**
> 
> Graphic by the lovely [@ladykenz347](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKenz347/pseuds/LadyKenz347)!  


**Winter **

_Present_

The first signs of snow fell weeks before winter began. Flakes of frost tumbled from the sky in all shapes and sizes, dusting everything with a light layer of brilliant white. Pulling open the heavy door of the apothecary, Hermione sucked in a deep breath and plastered on the same sham of a smile that she’d spread across her cheeks for the past few years. 

It was a short walk from the Apparition point to her newest place of employment. After nearly five years at the Ministry, tangled in red tape and the weight of the world’s injustices resting on her shoulders, she’d taken a leap and turned in her resignation when an internship at a new apothecary owned by Gideon Selwyn opened up in Diagon Alley. Making a difference, as she’d so naively thought possible when she’d showed up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed her first day, was never quite so simple. Real change  _ doesn’t _ come from within, at least not in the Ministry of Magic; so she’d decided it was time to venture out.

She’d never fancied herself much of a potioneer in her younger years, despite the semi-successful Polyjuice incident back at school, but during the war, supplies had been low, and she’d discovered a love for creating something from nearly nothing. 

It reminded her, with a bittersweet ache, of being a child. Jean Granger was an excellent cook, and Hermione had found a sense of peace as a child mixing and baking alongside her mother. Surrounded by potions ingredients she'd scavenged from the forest just beyond the safe house, Hermione had deduced that potions weren't too different. In her free time over the last few years, she’d devoured every book she could find on the subject, dedicating an entire bookshelf to the study. In some strange way, it made her feel closer to them. To Monica and Wendell and their second life as bakers in Australia. Memory modification spells were tricky, and she’d realised a little too late that sometimes they couldn’t be reversed. While the Wilkins were happy in their new life, Hermione couldn’t help but regret the role she’d played in upending everything they’d ever known and plastering new moments in the holes she’d created. But the Hermione-shaped hole left in their hearts had closed, and they were none the wiser it had ever even existed. 

Shaking herself from that particularly hurtful train of thought, her heels clicked across the tile of the dusty front room as she approached the counter. Glancing up at the clock, she wondered if she was too early, but the hands were only a few ticks short of eight. A dusty bell sat back about a foot, and she looked around once more, listening for any sign of life within the walls. 

Tapping on the button, a sharp ring cut through the silence, and a clamour sounded from just beyond a curtain on the far wall. 

A shock of white-blond hair caused her breath to hitch, and when the low rumble of a laugh she wished she didn’t remember so vividly floated through the dimly lit space, she nearly spun on her heel and ran.

Before she could move an inch, another figure followed the first, his wild white hair trotting out with an absent smile. “Mr. Malfoy—”

“Draco,” he insisted, turning just in time to catch her wide-eyed expression before she schooled her features back into a mask of feigned indifference. “We’ll be working together for quite some time, Gideon, best to start out on the right foot.”

The portly older gentlemen’s lips twisted into a smile and she nearly retched right there from the irony of it all. When she’d applied and the subsequent letter of acceptance had arrived, Hermione had known she would be working with another apprentice angling to fill the same spot. She had not, however, had the slightest inkling that the disgraced Malfoy heir would be the one stepping into that role. 

After a beat of silence, the man turned around, apparently surprised by her presence. “And you must be Ms. Granger.”

Widening her smile until her cheeks nearly split, she decided right then and there that she simply couldn’t lose to the blond leering at her from a few feet away. “Hermione.” Extending her own hand to shake the owner’s already outstretched one, she thought to herself:  _ Game on. _

_Past_

“You’re not doing it right.” Ripping the blade from her hand, the blond she wanted nothing more than to hex into oblivion kneeled down beside her. “If you want the make the most of the dittany we do find, you can’t hack at it like a bloody weed.”

“I wasn’t hacking at it, you smarmy little—”

“Ah, ah, Granger.” He held up his hand, an irritatingly smug smile curling on his thin lips. “Kingsley himself put me on this little escapade with you to ensure we maximize the yield.”

“Piss off, Malfoy.” It certainly wasn’t an eloquent or even a valid retort, but the memory of a textbook swimming in her head unfortunately agreed with him. Maybe her own irritation from a particularly poorly timed run-in with her red-haired ex and his newest slag had gotten to her a bit more than she cared to admit. 

She  _ had  _ been ripping the dittany from the soil, straight off its root. Malfoy, on the other hand, cut a small circle around the valuable little plant and grasped it between two long fingers before plucking the whole thing, root to tip, from the ground.

“Well then, dittany’s all yours. I’m off to find some wormwood.” Spinning on her heel, her mud-caked boots stomped through the field, putting as much distance between them as possible.

Just as she bent to examine a patch of earth, reaching forward and brushing off a thin layer of frost, she heard him call out, “Try not to brutalise it this time, Granger. I’d hate to see what you do with other types of wood.”

“Prat.” 

Even though it was said quietly in the scant space between herself and the plant, it made her feel a little bit better. Then, as quickly as she could, she pulled a small knife from the holster near her boot and put herself between Malfoy and the wormwood. She certainly didn’t need him to see the perfectly cut hole in the ice-cold soil around where the root used to be.

_Present_

Hermione spent every second of her free time buried under tomes filled with ancient, obscure potions. She really should have remembered Malfoy’s penchant for potions back in school, and though she tried to forget the time she’d spent with him after that, her own affinity for the precision of his movements was not entirely lost. Buried maybe, shoved in a file behind a carefully constructed wall in her mind, but certainly not lost. It was one of the many little things she’d admired about him back when they thought the world might end. 

“Granger.” The way his voice caressed the typically clumsy syllables of her name ripped her from her reverie, and she turned to sneer at the object of her current, and admittedly long-held, ire. 

“What, Malfoy?”

“No need to get huffy, witch. I was simply going to ask if you’d like to watch me put the finishing touches on this potion. It’s one of my own inventions, and I know for a fact you haven’t seen it before.” The pompous prick had the nerve to smile at her, and she nearly lost her cool right then and there. It wasn’t as though Mr. Selwyn could see them anyway, and she’d been itching for a fight since the first time she’d laid eyes on him again in the front room of the shop.

“I have no interest in watching you do a damned thing, Malfoy. Keep to your side of the room, and I’ll do the same.”

_Past_

“No. Absolutely not. There is no bloody way I’m staying in that...that...that shack with  _ him _ !”

“Please, ‘Mione.” Ron's eyes, the same light blue ones she’d dreamed about for years, bore into her, and though the effect was entirely different now that they’d called it quits a few weeks earlier, her resolve weakened just the same. 

Pursing her lips and taking a deep breath, she stared him down. “I should be with you and Harry! This war is mine as much as anyone else’s, and I  _ need  _ to play my part. I refuse to stay holed up in some safe house with someone I don’t even want to speak to until further notice. Not. Happening. Ronald. Weasley.” Punctuating each word with spitting defiance, she watched him deflate before her very eyes. 

“It’ll only be for a few days. You can even build a wall in the middle of the whole thing like they did in that movie you made me watch with the green monster thing.”

“It’s called Shrek, and if I remember correctly, you were the one to pick it out.” 

Thinking back on the night a few summers ago when they’d toyed with Arthur’s latest find at the Ministry, she couldn’t help the small smile that crept across her lips. A bag full of VHS tapes had weighed down each of his arms, and a brilliant smile lit his aged features as Arthur tittered on in wonderment about the Muggle picture box. Even though they’d fallen apart after a half-hearted attempt to ‘make things work’ as a _ real couple  _ in the middle of the war, she was still fond of that particular memory. By the end of the evening, she’d been nestled in the crook of his arm, and just for a moment, a singular night in a time when everything else had felt so uncertain, she’d found a sense of safety.

“Fine, but don’t expect me to be happy about.”

Later that night in the safe house, she and Malfoy had their first of many rows over who would cook the many meals to come. 

“Well, I certainly won’t be cooking for us unless I’m allowed to use my wand.”

“Poor little Malfoy. Helpless without his wand.”

“You’ve been using one of these Muggle stove contraptions most of your life!”

“Oh, so now because I’m Muggleborn I should cook? Or is it because I’m the female here? Is that what a good Pureblood wife would do? Hmm? Oversee the kitchen and boss around the elves? Do you need me to wash all the dishes for you, too?” The tips of her fingers were tingling with the accidental magic she tried her damndest to quell. “Find your own damn food, you prick.”

“I don’t even know how to operate the bloody thing, Granger!”

She stomped up the rickety stairs, rattling the house as she slammed her door. For just a moment, she even entertained the idea of grabbing a stick of chalk and drawing a thick line down the center of the house, leaving the kitchen and his own equally tiny bedroom securely on  _ his  _ side. 

But the chill of the wind seeping through the cracks in the walls eventually wore her thin, and when only the glow of the moon lit the poor excuse for a kitchen, she made a can of soup and left the remainder on the stove. The next morning, the pot was nowhere to be seen, and upon further inspection, she found it clean and dry, stacked amongst the pans in the same shabby cupboard she’d pulled it from before.

_Present_

The trial period was only supposed to last a few months. 

Three, to be exact, but each day had come and passed with little notice from Gideon. He’d warmed to them both in no time at all and kept insisting they worked so well together that he simply wasn’t ready to part with either of them. 

He promised to have a decision before the winter bled into spring.

Long days and even longer nights passed in relative silence. They only exchanged the bare minimum of words, but what neither of them would voice spoke volumes. While Malfoy certainly wasn’t the same boy she’d come to trust many moons ago, some parts of him were still familiar. 

Once or twice he’d caught her staring at the planes of his chest, silently wondering if the scar that painted his torso had lost the vibrant pink she’d traced with the tips of her fingers. More often though, she caught his gaze fixed firmly on her own form. Each and every time, she reinforced the barrier within her mind, tucking him back in the corner, securing the memories the same way she had been for the past few years. If one day the walls felt weak, she drew up the last, most painful recollection of them all and reminded herself why getting involved with Draco Lucius Malfoy was, and always had been, her worst idea to date. 

* * *

**Spring **

_Present_

The anti-frost charms on the cobblestone path worked well enough in the earliest days of spring. The drifts of snow lining the sidewalks had long since melted, and a patch of flowers peeked through the muck of the sodden soil in a flower box nestled against a window. Stopping to observe the first sign of life, Hermione saw small buds of light pink wrapped in green leaves. They’d bloom in a matter of days, and with them, the season of awakening would follow. 

For the past several years, her weekends had been spent alone, save for the obligatory Weasley family dinners she was still steadily invited to. Being alone was preferable, of course, but the bustling energy from the red-headed clan was addictive; try as she might to say otherwise, Sunday nights still found her at their dinner table with relative frequency. Much like the leaning shadow of the Burrow itself, the table had been magically expanded to incorporate all the additions to the family. This weekend, however, she’d opted out of dinner, citing a need to catch up on some research for work. 

Flourish and Blotts was just ahead, calling to her in the same way it had for over a decade. With only weeks left to secure her spot for the Potineer position under Mr. Selwyn, Hermione dedicated every waking hour to giving herself an educated edge on the natural ease with which Malfoy carried himself amongst the cauldrons. 

Just as she had countless times before, Hermione found herself amongst the stacks in the research section, scouring the shelves for a book she’d sworn she’d seen just the weekend before. Lost in her search for the tome, the familiar scent of his cologne didn’t register until he was leaning against the shelf right next to her. 

“Fancy seeing you here, Granger. I thought you’d be at the Weasel’s with the rest of the brood.”

Taking a deep breath and reinforcing the ever crumbling walls within her own mind, she turned, a sharp retort poised on the tip of her tongue. The biting remark died, however, right where it sat when she saw the book clutched between the same hands she knew all too well. She knew every dip and curve of his palms, the crease of his lifelines, slightly different on each, and the cut of his knuckles. She’d held them, kissed them, shattered under each of them individually and together too many times to count. Those hands still haunted her dreams from time to time, and at work, it was easy to ignore the familiarity of their shape, of their length, but with his pale fingers obscuring the familiar title, she had no choice but to study them again.

“Were you looking for this?” The book snapped shut, and with the thud of the pages, she was back between the stacks with the last person on earth she wanted to see on her day off in her safest space. 

“You know I am. Now if you’ll kindly hand it over, I’ll buy it and be on my way.” Could he tell from the quiver of her defiant pout that the show she’d put on for so long was simply a facade? Silver eyes studied her face as she fought to maintain her air of annoyance.

“I know you mentioned wanting a copy yesterday. Muttered it, in fact, under your breath no less, but I had no idea there was only one copy here.” He tutted his tongue. “I guess since I’m the one holding it, it is, in fact, already spoken for. Sorry to say, Granger, you’ve lost this round.”

“Why are you doing this, Malfoy?”

The use of his surname steeled the molten silver in his gaze, a hard line forming on his jaw as it clenched. “Doing what? Buying a book Gideon recommended?” 

The feigned innocence was enough to snap her last nerve, and she reached forward to grab it before slender fingers wrapped around her wrist, pushing just so on the spot he’d once known all too well would make her whimper in a way she only ever had for him. 

_Past_

“You were nearly killed out there, Granger! Going alone to harvest moonflower was by far your stupidest idea yet!” The roar of his voice frayed her frazzled nerves because he was  _ right _ . “Fenrir has been sniffing around the woods for weeks, and you choose while I’m at headquarters to go to possibly the most dangerous of all the collection points, in the middle of the night no less, completely alone! How stupid can you be, you...you...you bloody bint!”

A sense of rage boiled her blood. It hadn’t been her brightest moment, not by far, but the Order  _ needed  _ those ingredients. and it only bloomed once each full moon. But being confronted with her own failure was nearly unbearable. 

Rearing back, she swept an open palm through the air, shutting her eyes and expecting it to meet a sharp jaw. In an instant, instead of the sting of her slap, she felt the grip of his fingers press into her pulse point. Certain that he could feel the way her heart hammered in her veins, she opened her eyes, leveling her fiery gaze on the wizard mere inches from her face. 

“Don’t you dare.” It was practically a growl, a low rumble of his voice that sent shivers up her spine. 

“Why do you even care?”

He didn’t answer, or move, or even breathe for a moment that felt frozen in time. Darting back and forth, his eyes flicked over the contours of her face before his thumb swept along the thin skin of her wrist. 

Tugging her forward, they crashed together like a bolt of lightning. His lips were on hers, his hands digging into the too-thin frame of her hips, and he swallowed her gasp as she gave in to the urges that had kept her up for nights on end. 

Their limbs tangled together, clothes tossed in haphazard piles, and for the very first time, they found themselves locked in a war of wills, articulated with sweeping tongues and wanton sounds she didn’t even recognize as her own.

Where he was hard, sharp lines, she was soft and plaint. Where she felt steel, he gripped flesh. And when her slick coated their most intimate parts, they traded moans and groans and sinful words between the battered sheets of his bed until neither of them had an ounce of themselves left to give. 

_Present_

A warm breeze tickled the tips of her ears, her hair pulled back in an intricate plait from the night before courtesy of Ginvera Potter née Weasley as Hermione entered the apothecary in much the same way she had been for the past several months. Only this time, it wasn’t a fleeting chance to secure a permanent spot. 

While she’d eagerly accepted the proffered position just the night before, she’d quickly learned Mr. Selwyn had opened up another and promptly offered it as well. It looked as though she and Draco would be working together for the foreseeable future, and that fact alone was the reason she’d shown up at the Potter residence just after James had fallen asleep. 

Spring brought with it a slew of memories she tried and failed to ignore. Her cheeks were slick with tracks from her tears, and a bottle of elf wine was clutched between her shaking fingers as Ginny ushered her into the house without question the night before.

Friendships were valuable to Hermione. She’d always had close friends in both Ron and Harry, and despite the strain of adulthood, they’d made a point to maintain their connection. Ron was happily married to Susan Bones, a former classmate already swollen with their first child. Harry, of course, had wed Ginny the second they were able and started creating a family of their own. Even though they were all at such different points in their lives, Hermione caught herself wandering down a dangerous path of  _ what-ifs  _ and  _ why nots _ from time to time. She’d known Ron and herself weren’t destined for the storybook romances she’d longed for in her youth. Their fumbling kisses and an equally disastrous first time were hard things to recover from, but she’d never faulted him for their differences. 

Moving on had been rough. In the beginning, it had felt bloody impossible, but she knew now that the fire that’d burned through her veins at the hand of a wizard of a different sort had been more akin to the fantasy she still felt she deserved. Losing Ron had been devastating, but she’d dealt with it. Losing Draco, though— 

Traitorous thoughts slipped passed her carefully constructed walls as she watched the wizard in question stretch to grab a vial off the top shelf. Deciding she needed as much space as possible, she set her trusty beaded bag down on the bench on the far side of the room and turned her back to him, delving into the newest batch of Draught of Living Death St. Mungo’s had commissioned just the day before.

A ghost of a breath weaved through the tangled tendrils that’d escaped her braid, and she was all too aware of a warm palm pressing into her shoulder. Embers of the former flames they'd stoked between panting breaths simmered beneath her skin, pooling in her belly and opening up an ache in her chest. 

Twice now in as many months, she'd found herself within his arms' reach. 

Twice now she'd wallowed in the misery that accompanied the knowledge that he was no longer hers. 

Spring was known for many things, new life, new start, the beginning of warmth and the end of the war. But this year, for Hermione, the beginning of the budding flowers signaled the end of her fight with the memories she could no longer bury.

After the end of the war just four years before, she'd seen a therapist to process the trauma and come to terms with the same dark deeds she'd once sworn she'd never commit. But she’d never talked about  _ him _ ; though Hermione knew at some point she’d have to move past the ache that came from the mere mention of his name, she could never bring herself to accept the fact that he, too, was a topic that required closure.

Being angry for so long had sucked the will to maintain the rouse right from her soul, and in that moment, with his palm pressing into her shoulder, she desperately wished things had been different. 

_Past_

Sweeping swirls of moonlight danced across the shoddy surface of their makeshift desk. His hands were warm against her hips as his lips left lines of kisses across her bare shoulders. Wrapped in nothing but the thin sheet from his bed, Hermione pressed back into the same planes of the body she’d nearly memorised with the tips of her fingers. 

“Stop it.” It wasn’t forceful, or even very effective, but his lips were whispering promises on her skin they certainly couldn’t keep as she stirred the Draught of Living Death. None of the safe houses had a single vial, and with the war heating up, it was one of very few problems she thought she could actually remedy. 

“I’ll never stop.” It was another assurance, another pledge she longed for him to keep when the war was finally won. 

“If you keep it up, we’ll spoil this entire batch. Just a few more stirs and we can let it set.”

“Not a few,” he corrected, teasing the sensitive skin nestled just below her ear. “Only one. Then you’re all mine, Granger.”

Pulling the spoon from the cauldron with the final swish of a stir, she turned within the circle of his arms, reaching up and carding delicate fingers through fine hair. “I already am.”

* * *

**Summer **

_Present_

Impossibly tall trees painted shadowy lines across the thriving field. She hadn't been back here since the height of the war. A tingle of magic snaked through her spine as she stepped past the wards into the newly-thriving nursery. Much like at Hogwarts, Neville's nose was buried in the bloom of a flower, and his wife's soothing voice filtered through the breeze. Luna turned as Hermione inched into the field, flanked on either side by Malfoy and Gideon. 

"Welcome!" Even with years between her last memory of Luna's voice and now, the melodic tone was still comforting.

"Mrs. Longbottom." Draco proffered his hand, and the blond looked at it for only a second before reaching forward and wrapping her arms around the wizard. His spine went rigid and Hermione choked down a laugh. Even at the height of their tryst, he'd never been fond of her eccentric school friend.

"Luna, if you would." A dazzling smile painted her pale face as she turned to greet Gideon the same way. Hermione was last, but even still, the hug she received was no worse for the wear.

Hours passed as the sun rose high in the sky. Hermione’s jumper was tied around her waist, reminiscent of her youth, and a bead of sweat trickled down her temple as she planted the last of ten long rows of dittany seeds. 

"St. Mungos will be happy. We'll be able to stock the ward three times over by the time this harvest is done."

He was too close again, hovering inches from her side and peering over her shoulder. Glancing up, Hermione saw her two old friends speaking with Gideon. Just as they always had, both Neville and Luna exuded a passion for their chosen craft, and her boss was caught between expressive limbs and warm smiles, returning their enthusiasm in equal measure.

Brushing the dirt from her palms, Hermione turned to face Draco. "Have you finished prepping the mandrakes for transplantation?"

"Of course. I was coming to see if you might help." Palm up, he offered her his hand before she brushed past him instead.

_Past_

"May I have this dance?" 

Extending his hand, palm flat in invitation, a playful look danced across his features. He truly was breathtaking like this: loose, relaxed, the weight of the war free from his shoulders. 

She didn't even try to stop the smile that curled between her cheeks as she took his hand and rose to her feet. 

The war had ended with a bang. Although the prison was filled with captives and the list of upcoming trials was a mile long, his own parents' included, he'd convinced her to take a weekend away at his family's French estate. 

With her arms wound around his shoulders and his hands slipping around her waist, she'd never been more glad for her own concession.

That night, they weren't pawns in a war. They breathed easy in each other's company as simply two kids in love. High on victory and drunk on the taste of one another, his lips were loose when he whispered three little words into the crook of her neck. Without a thought, she echoed them right back, and for just a moment, everything else fell away.

Harry and Ron hadn't been happy when she'd revealed her choice of partner. But keeping him behind closed doors like some shameful secret wasn’t something she was willing to do after the final spell was cast back in May. 

Hermione Granger had given up so much of herself for the greater good of the Wizarding World. Pieces of herself were scattered across battlefields, some friends nothing more than a name now carved in stone. She'd sent her own parents away for the sake of their safety, and she was simply exhausted. 

When the sun rose slowly the day after the final battle and the casualties were tallied with tear-stained cheeks, she vowed to live for those who couldn't and embrace the new world she'd fought so hard to help create. Her hand had slipped into his, and with a defiant rise of her chin, she'd claimed him, claimed  _ them _ , and in turn, she'd staked a claim on her own little slice of happiness for everyone to see.

_Present_

The little touches and sidelong glances were getting to be too much. She’d wake in the middle of the night with visions of silver eyes dancing behind her lids. Her dreams had changed as of late. Broken memories of their painful past gave way to new visions of the blond. Visions of her, dressed in white, laughing as she pressed her lips to his. Visions of little blond children with curly hair zooming by on brooms and stolen kisses in the gardens under the cover of night. Maybe once they had been her own dreams, plans for the future she clung to after the war, but now they simply ached. 

Losing her parents had been a hard pill to swallow, losing Draco a close second, but losing the hopes for her future, the dream of a family they might make instead of choose, was the toughest reality of all. 

To make matters worse, he’d been nothing but polite as of late. His forced proximity and intoxicating banter had recently ramped up to near dizzying degrees. He even smiled at her from time to time, and it was ruining her resolve to keep her distance. 

Lying to oneself was a tricky thing. 

A thing that could only last so long. 

Threading her fingers through her matted curls, she groaned into her pillow; relishing in the sting of every tug on her scalp, she welcomed the distraction from the ache in her heart. 

_Past_

Long fingers danced up her side, tracing the curve of her hip, featherlight touches tracking the line of her arm. When they finally slipped between the curls at the nape of her neck, she smiled. He tugged gently, turning her toward him and savoring every second of their languid kiss. 

“So what now, Golden Girl?”

She laughed and swatted his chest. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh, but isn’t that your title? We can add it to resident swot and—”

Hushing him with her lips, she smiled into the kiss. 

“Now we live.” 

It seemed simple, a promise slipped from honest lips. They’d both nearly died too many times to count and living seemed like the easiest thing to do.

“Now we live,” he echoed, studying the lines of her face before pressing his lips to hers once more. “Mother wants to meet you, you know.”

She hummed. She did, in fact, know that. A large eagle owl with perfectly preened feathers had delivered a letter hours earlier to the same effect. 

“She wants to have tea with us in Diagon Alley this weekend.” He didn’t quite ask, and for that she was thankful. He was letting her take the lead in their blossoming love, but it was a question just the same. 

“I think that can be arranged.”

Grinning, he dipped down for another kiss, lightly carding his fingers through the curls at the base of her neck, pressing on the points he knew would make her melt. 

When she pulled back, his excitement was nearly palpable, contagious in its tangibility, and she returned his brilliant smile. 

“Yeah?” He sounded so much like the child she never knew. Instead of a sneer or snarky remark, the elation in his eyes painted a picture of a boy who was once young, too. 

“Yeah.”

“Thank you again, by the way for—”

“I would have done it anyway, Draco. She doesn’t deserve to go to Azkaban. If she hadn’t...” She paused, sucking in a breath as the glimpses of her past flashed before her eyes. An arm snaked around her waist, and he pulled her flush against his chest. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

“Don’t be. He made his own decisions.” A beat passed, then two, the silence settling around them. Her lips crept across his chest, leaving a trail of gentle kisses in their wake. 

She’d spoken at Narcissa’s trial, as had Harry, but Draco had never asked that of her. In the same vein, he hadn’t asked her to speak at Lucius’, and she was grateful he hadn’t pushed. 

“Mother wants to go to that new tea house the Patil twins opened. She says they read the leaves after you finish. Knowing your love of Divination, I, of course, already agreed.”

Rolling her eyes, Hermione sat up. “You didn’t.”

He grinned. “I did. Who knows, maybe she’ll ask one of them when we’ll wed.” She blanched. “Or better yet, when she’ll be a grandmother.”

“Draco. Lucius. Malfoy. You’d better be kidding.”

Unfortunately, despite her clear irritation, Narcissa  _ had _ , in fact, asked about grandchildren. And though she’d never admitted it, a vision of a little blond boy and mousey-haired girl had flitted through her mind for just a moment. 

_Present_

“Gideon wants to have dinner and drinks after work to celebrate the first of many successful contracts with the Ministry.”

“Can’t,” she automatically replied. “But you two should enjoy.”

In her attempt to brush past him, Draco simply extended his arm. “Granger.” The texture of his voice sent shivers up her spine. It hadn’t sounded like that since—

Shaking her head, Hermione tried to push past him again to no avail. “Draco.” It was practically a plea. 

“Hermione,” he breathed, leaning into her.

“Please don’t do this.” 

“Why?” His eyes searched hers, back and forth, dipping to her lips, and an all-consuming ache nearly broke her. 

“Let me go.” She’d meant for him to let her leave, but as the words slipped past her lips, she knew it meant far more.

After a long moment of labored breaths, he asked, “And what if I can’t?”

Turning on her heel and rounding the other side of the table, Hermione left in a rush, trying her hardest to beat the tears threatening to fall. 

This time, he didn’t even protest.

_Past_

“It wouldn’t be this way if—”

Holding up a hand, she stopped him in his tracks. “Don’t you dare say it.”

“We both know it’s true! It’ll never stop, Hermione! It’ll follow me around for the rest of my days and haunt my family name for centuries to come.”

“I don’t care, Draco! Can’t you see that? I don’t care if people look at us and whisper hateful things. I don’t care if they call me names and send me Howlers screaming traitor! I don’t care because I lo—”

“AND WHAT IF I DO?” Ripping up his shirt sleeve, she saw the inky black mark that looked just as fresh as the day he’d first shown it to her. “You didn’t ask for this.  _ I  _ did. I practically begged for it at the time, and that one decision will poison the rest of my life. I can’t—” He gulped, but she remained silent, trying her damndest to will the tears away. “I ruin everything I touch… I can’t ruin you, too.”

Stunned silent, a tear slipped down her cheek. Somehow she knew. Somehow the beginning of the end crept up on them between harsh whispers and stacks of hate mail. Every comment cut a deeper ridge between them, and though she truly didn’t care, somehow  _ he  _ did.

“I can’t do this anymore, Hermione. It’s time we admit this was a mistake. I can’t—”

“And don’t I get a say in all of this? Don’t I get to choose? Because I’d choose you! I’d choose us. I’d choose this life and what little happiness we’ve clung to for the last few months. Draco, please don’t—”

He took a deep breath, a war waging behind those silver eyes. “I’m bad for you, Hermione. We’ve deluded ourselves long enough.” The words were hollow, but they hurt all the same. 

“Draco,” she whispered, pressing her eyes shut and holding back a wave of tears. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Sometimes what we want and what we need are two entirely different things, love.”

_Present_

Hermione didn’t know what had changed back then, and she certainly didn’t know what had changed now. He’d kept a careful distance, and she’d done the same. But the words he’d whispered, the way she’d felt — it was all too much. 

As it turned out, his reason for the change of heart in both the past and the present was the same — Harry Potter.

* * *

**Fall **

_Present_

“What?!”

“I said you need to go to the Leaky. Draco’s there, and he’s smashed.”

“That’s not my responsibility anymore, Harry.” She sighed even as she said it, because it  _ wasn’t _ her responsibility anymore, but that didn’t stop her from tugging on her trainers as she crammed the Muggle phone Harry was so fond of against her shoulder. 

“You don’t understand, Hermione. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t—”

Twisting the laces into the same little bows she’d done since she was a child, she waited for Harry to continue. 

“Okay, Hermione. Let me start this by saying don’t be mad.”

“Harry James Potter—”

“You know your happiness means more to me than anything, right? Second only to your safety?”

“Gods, Harry, just get on with it.” She knew she sounded huffy, and she felt it, too. Whatever tale he was preparing to weave involving Draco and herself had her heart thumping wildly, ricocheting around in her ribs and causing her breath to hitch.

“Do you remember when Ron and I joined the Aurors just after the war?” He sounded tentative, imploring, and she huffed again. 

“Of course I do. Go on.”

“Well shortly after we started, our first tasks were low level stuff like checking the post for threats.” She’d known that. A fleeting memory of Ron reenacting a particularly scandalous Howler pulled her from the moment until he continued. “Our first few weeks weren’t very exciting. In fact, most of the time it really wasn’t anything worth mentioning, but that changed a few months after the war. It all started with a series of letters addressed to you, of all people.” 

“I’m listening.” Brows scrunched together, Hermione smoothed her palms against her thighs and waited for Harry to explain. 

“They were filled with photos. Not normal photos of you on the street, but… well, they were er… rather  _ illicit.”  _ He said the word like a swear, and her eyes widened as her heart skipped into overdrive. 

The only person she’d been involved with was Draco at the time, and if someone had snapped pictures of them together, they’d had access to his old flat. They’d practically lived between his green silken sheets for those few blissful months. At one point in time, she’d even thought of it as her own home. 

“There was no note or anything with them, and we warded the area to alert us to any intrusions. In hindsight, we probably should have told you about it, but you worked in the Ministry, and we knew you were safe as long as you were with him. There wasn’t anything threatening… at first.”

Her pulse pounded in her ears as Hermione listened with rapt attention.

“When nothing came of it and the letters abruptly stopped, we kept watch on the wards but nothing changed. We’d thought it was over, some fanatical groupie obsessed with you or something, but sometime in the late summer, they started coming again. This time, they were in the same envelopes, plain manilla ones, rather boring really—”

“I don’t give a damn about the bloody envelopes, Harry,” she hissed. “Get to the point.”

“Okay. Okay. Uhm… well… er… the newest round was addressed to Draco, but instead of pictures they were threats.”

Sucking in a breath, Hermione felt time stand still. Based on the timeline, that would put this whole ordeal sometime near late summer, and that was when—

“Wait, did you tell Draco?”

“Not at first,” he admitted. “At first we just monitored them again, but then… then they weren’t just threats. Cursed objects were being sent, and as many times as we tried to trace the source, nothing ever came back. The closest lead we got was some empty house one of the magical signatures was last registered to and the name of a dead Death Eater. So we told Draco, and well... I think we all know what he did.” The last bit was whispered, barely audible over the blood rushing to her head.

“I have to go.”

-

The Leaky Cauldron hadn’t changed. It still held the same variety of witches and wizards it always had, now only a little worse for the wear, and a few familiar faces. In one corner, she saw a group of witches giggling over some bubbly green concoctions. The bar was littered with wizards leaning against the woodgrain, clearly a few too deep in to even sit without the help of the solid surface.

Her eyes skated around the room, skimming over tabletops and bouncing around various groups, before landing on the far right corner where a booth sat buried between the shadows. 

A flash of white-blond carried her feet to the far side of the bar, and she slid into the booth. He didn’t even look up as the cushion dipped, still running his finger along the rim of the empty glass in front of him.

Reaching out, Hermione laid a hand on his forearm, the very same one with the mark marring the alabaster skin. 

“Draco—” Instantly, he stiffened, hands dropping to the tabletop and splaying wide against the wood.

When he finally looked up, his silver irises shaded with the glaze of his buzz, she felt her heart drop. His eyes were rimmed red, cheeks pinkened from the booze, and a sad smile quirked at the edge of his lips. 

“Why are you here, Granger?” Though the words should have been harsh, they lacked his typical edge. 

“Tell me why Harry called me.” 

She’d thought about it on the way over. She’d thought about how to approach this and what he might say. Ultimately, even though Harry had told her  _ his  _ side of what had happened, she wanted to hear it directly from Draco. She wanted him to tell her why he broke her heart and disappeared. She  _ needed _ to know. 

“Go home, Hermione. I’m drunk.”

“No.” With a defiant tilt to her chin, she wrapped her hand around his. 

“What do you want from me?”

“Honestly, the truth, but I don’t just want it, Draco. I need it, and as someone who once meant a great deal to me once said, sometimes what we want and what we need are entirely different things.”

Carding his fingers through the already tousled blond locks, his shoulders slumped and she watched every ounce of fight he had in him leave in a single breath. “And what if this time they aren’t?”

Her breath caught in her throat as she watched him shake his head.

“Let’s get you out of here. I can practically taste the firewhisky on your breath.”

-

One full vial of sober up potion later, Draco sat on her guest bed and chugged a glass of water. “Ick. I’d forgotten how horrible those taste.”

“What,” she teased, “you haven’t been drinking much lately?” It was a thinly veiled attempt at humor to ease the tension, but it must have missed its mark because he clenched his jaw, gripping the glass tighter and refusing to meet her eyes. 

“I wouldn’t say that. I just haven’t tasted a sober up potion in quite some time.” Hermione tilted her head. “Why would I want to ruin the buzz I worked so hard to get?”

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Hermione nodded. “So—”

“Before you say anything, Granger, let’s get one thing straight.” And just like that, his walls were up once again, and the sharp edge to his voice felt like a knife in her heart. At least this time she knew what was coming, she reasoned. At least this time she had some time to prepare. “What I did, and what I do, I stand by. My decisions were made with the best of intentions despite their poor execution. I will  _ always _ — _ ” _ Finally lifting his head, his eyes locked on hers in an instant. “—always protect the people that I love.” 

It wasn’t news to her, she’d known he was fiercely protective from the very beginning. Shifting back on the bed, he made room for her to sit on the edge. “I don’t know what Potter told you, but after the war, I began receiving threats…”

He went on to recount the same tale Harry had told her not long before. The Aurors, the packages, the letters and photos all spilled from his lips in a steady stream. Confession after confession filled the space between them as she waited with bated breath for something she didn’t already know. He was toying with the hem of her pillowcase, worrying the fabric between his fingers as he spoke, lost in his own recollection.

“The last one they received was a vial. Somehow they’d manufactured something like a memory, only it hadn’t actually happened. Not yet, at least, and that was the final straw for me. Potter and I said some choice words, but he was right. I was willing to go after the bloody coward and use every last knut in my vault to track him down and make him pay for—” 

“What did it show?” Somehow she just knew. He shook his head, opening then closing his mouth and shifted on the bed. 

“I don’t want to talk about it. All that matters is that you’re safe and you’ve lived a good life. You’re  _ still _ living a good life. Hell, if I hadn’t been the one competing with you for this position, I have no doubt you would’ve won the spot.”

“Lucky me,” she breathed, laying her palm flat across his knuckles to still his fidgeting fingers. “So… you saw something you didn’t want to see and decided to what? Run? Move? Disappear? Break my heart and never look back?” Her eyes were surely glassy, but she held his gaze nonetheless.

“I did what I had to do to protect you.”

“So why come back?” she challenged. 

A mirthless laugh dripped from his lips. “They caught him. Apparently it was years ago, and it was one of the Carrows who had been in hiding. I saw them interview him under Verisatum, and he said you were— no,  _ we were _ a disgrace to tradition.” He paused. “Hermione, I—”

“Don’t. Please, just don’t. I’ve dwelled on the what ifs and maybes for the last five years, and I can’t live in that space anymore. You’re back, Carrow hasn’t been around for years, and yet it’s taken you this long to clear the air? It took me pulling you from the bar to tell me the truth? Why, Draco? Why now? Why me?”

She needed to understand. Piece by piece his explanation had fallen into place, but it didn’t explain his behavior as of late. If he’d truly loved her with every fiber of his being the same all-consuming way she’d loved him, if it had all been about protecting her, she could understand it. Hell, she might have even done the same thing. 

A thought struck her in that moment, an image of Monica and Wendell in front of the Sydney Opera House, wide smiles painted on their faces without a worry in the world. Yes, she could certainly understand making hard decisions for those she loved. She’d done it before, and if the occasion ever arose, she’d do it again in a heartbeat. 

“Well, you can thank Potter for that one, too.”

Pursing her lips, Hermione furrowed her brow. He said it as though it made some kind of sense, yet even she was still lost in the weeds. “I don't understand.”

“Apparently you showed up on his doorstep some time ago.” 

And just like that, a light went off. 

_ You know your happiness means more to me than anything, right? Second only to your safety? _

No wonder he’d prefaced the sordid tale with his own disclaimer. 

Too much time had been wasted. Too many days, too many nights, too many moments she could have had him were squandered, scattered throughout their years apart, and she yearned to feel his touch once more. Gulping, she asked, “Harry wanted you to talk to me, right? He sent me to talk to  _ you _ so I can only guess that—”

“Gods, Granger, I know that brilliant mind of yours has worked it all out already. It’s not that complicated. I may have wanted to be with you, but I needed you to be safe.”

“What brought you back?”

“Mother.” One word. Not two. Not her own name or three little letters that would mean the same. “And you. I got word my mother was sick, and I contacted Potter to inquire about the case. Lo and behold, it had been closed for years, and somehow I highly doubt my owl was lost on the trip to deliver the news.”

“Is she… okay?” She didn’t even know if she had the right to ask that question, but when they’d been together, Hermione had grown fond of the older witch. 

“She’s… she's older now. Fragile in her own way, but yes, she’s okay. She just requires a fair bit of care. Lucky for me, my vault has enough in it to pay for around-the-clock care.”

“Can I—” She paused, shifting ever so slightly closer to him on the bed. “Can I see her?”

“That depends.” The playful smirk she’d so sorely missed curled on his lips, and she held her breath. “Maybe we’ll have to see what the tea leaves say.”

Swatting his chest, he caught her wrist, the pad of his thumb caressing the sensitive skin as he pulled her close. “If I remember correctly, they said she’d be a grandmother, and I’d hate to deliver bad news.”

A single tear slipped down her cheek as she smiled, leaning into a languid kiss. Resting her forehead against his, a small laugh slipped from her parted lips. “They say practice makes perfect, right?”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Yes yes, I know Shrek came out in 2001 but let’s suspend disbelief for just a moment in this work of fiction.
> 
> I have quite a few people to thank for helping me through my writer’s block on this piece. First of all, thank you to [@lilibug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilibug/pseuds/lilibug) for helping me come up with the seasonal theme and encouraging my love for vignette style pieces. Alpha love to [@mcal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcal/pseuds/mcal) & [@ladykenz347](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKenz347/pseuds/LadyKenz347). Beta’d by the lovely [@ravenslight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenslight/pseuds/ravenslight) who polished up this little piece. Last but not least, thanks to the admin of [@dramione_duet](https://dramione-duet.livejournal.com/%22) for hosting this fun little fic exchange! (and for letting me go quite a bit over the maximum word count)
> 
> This is the first fest I signed up for in this fandom & I hope you all enjoyed this angsty little (okay, not so little) fic.
> 
> Come find me on tumblr [@dreamsofdramione](https://dreamsofdramione.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Thank you so much for taking the time to read my silly words! I’d love to hear all of your thoughts!


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